What Lies Beneath
by KindleLyn
Summary: A collection of character sketches, attempting to make some sense of my favorite ninja-chick, Ziva David. Newest addition: A tag to 'Boxed In.' Why didn't Ziva invite Tony to her dinner party?
1. To Mourn the Death of Traitors

**A/N: There is just something about Ziva that makes her so darn interesting to me, and trying to figure her out is one of my favorite pastimes. This little piece is something I was thinking about after we found out that Ziva did, in fact, have orders to kill Ari to earn Gibbs' trust. Knowing that Ziva told Gibbs in _Silver War_ that she "requested this assignment," I now doubt that she was telling the truth. And so I wrote this sketch, set between _Kill Ari Part 2_ and _Silver War_, to make sense in my head of what might be going on in her head.**

**It's possible I might add more Ziva sketches to this story as I continue to contemplate her character. If you would be interested in more, let me suggest hitting the "review" button. :-) **

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything, duh.**

* * *

"Sit down." The command was his only greeting.

He hadn't seen her since de-briefing her mission immediately upon her return. Three days had passed since she had sat down in this very room and coldly recited the details of her time in D.C. She remembered the dead feeling in the pit of her stomach as she allowed her toneless voice to tell him everything; she was nothing but a tape recorder, and he had pressed _play_. When it was all done, when she had emptied her body of every word she had spoken or heard and every action she had made or observed, he said nothing but, "Well done." He had pushed one sheet of paper aside to reveal another, which he frowned upon for a moment before saying, "You are dismissed. Standby for further orders."

Not once had he acknowledged the fact that she was speaking of his son, her brother, when she spoke of the man she had killed. Not once had he even said her name.

She sat obediently, because obedience was all she knew to give him - all she had ever given him - and it had only recently begun to occur to her that it had never been enough. She pushed that thought away; it was a thought of weakness. Whatever she had hoped to earn from him was something she should not need. She should not need anything more than what he offered. He knew best what it meant to be strong.

"Director Shepard has offered to accept you as a Liaison Officer assigned to NCIS," Deputy Director Eli David informed her, looking down at the ever present papers on his desk, then glancing up at her over the rims of his reading glasses. If he noticed the darkness under her eyes or the pallor of her skin, he did not remark upon it. "I have discussed the matter with our Director, and we have decided to accept."

Ziva searched her father's expression carefully, trying to see beyond his mask of cool, confident control. His words had the same sense of half-reality that everything had now, ever since Ari's death. She had not yet found her way back to reason, but the world moved on without her - her father moved on without her - and now he meant to send her back to the very last place on Earth she would have chosen to go.

A protest died in her throat. Argument would do nothing but bring his anger upon her. He would never change his mind, and she could not say, "No." She knew why only she could take this assignment, and, for a moment, she wished she hadn't saved Jenny's life in Cairo.

"You will leave in two weeks. The Embassy in D.C. will locate a suitable apartment. The assignment may be prolonged." Director David continued on without waiting for her response. What need was there for response between a father and his daughter? What would she say to him aside from, "Yes, father, I will?"

"Your first objective will be to smooth relations between Mossad and NCIS. Recent incidents have, of course, ruffled some feathers. Your second and long-term objective is to provide insight on American intelligence, strategies, and operations dealing with Middle Eastern concerns. You will stay in regular contact with the Embassy in D.C., and with me. Your orders." He offered her a thin folder, she accepted it without thought.

Eli leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk, and pulling away his glasses. "Do you have any questions?"

She swallowed hard, allowing her gaze to linger just slightly too long on the folder in her hands. When she looked up, she had to fight down the impulse to shake her head and walk out. Her jaw tightened as she braced herself to ask the question she had to ask.

"Ari's funeral ... " she began.

Deputy Director David's fist slammed down on his desk, and his dark eyes flashed with an anger that she knew preceded nothing but more violence. Ziva only flinched on the inside.

"Half-arab, traitorous scum do not receive funeral rights on my watch," Eli shouted. "No matter what." The last three words were soft and even more dangerous.

She steeled herself again. "Please, father. I want to observe the proper rituals."

He was on his feet and walking around the desk; she couldn't take her eyes off him. He stopped beside her, allowing his finger to draw across her chin, turning her face to him. Her face stung when he struck her, but she, who had endured much worse, refused to allow even the slightest noise of surprise or hurt escape her. His hand closed around her jaw, holding her painfully between his claw-like fingers. She kept her eyes open, dry, and on his face, because any sign of fear now would only feed his fury.

"Put that dog of a bastard out of your mind. I did not raise you to mourn the death of traitors." His grip tightened momentarily before he released her face, then caught her by the arm and pulled her out of the chair.

"Get out," he growled, throwing her towards the door.

She paused long enough to nod and offer the expected, "Yes, father," and then she was out and away from him. Clutching her orders in her hand, she rushed down the hallway, desperate for escape.

"In a hurry, Ziva?" a fool of a man joked as she sped past him. She lashed out without hesitation, drew his own weapon and held it to his head, his neck trapped between her forearm and the wall.

"It is none of your business," she hissed, shoving the muzzle of the firearm roughly into his temple, enjoying the feel of his rapid heartbeat and shallow breath as she pressed her body into his back threateningly. When she'd had her fill of his shock and fear, she threw his weapon down so that it skittered across the floor.

She collected all her disgust and hurt and anger and grief, threw her unfortunate victim aside, and stormed out of the building. No one else was foolish enough to interrupt her.

* * *

**A/N: I love reviews ... and I would especially love to hear feedback on my interpretation of Ziva's mindset. Anyone want to share their theories of Ziva David? I will gladly listen. **

**It may seem that she is meeker than expected in this interaction with her father, but it fits with my concept of her character because it is clear in recent episodes that her father still has influence over her, even as she is moving towards the point where she'll be able to let him go.**


	2. Trust Me

**A/N: The relationship between Ziva and Ari has always been a favorite opportunity of mine for speculation, so I wrote this piece about a moment shared between them. I imagine this to be set years before Ziva makes her entrance on NCIS, on the night before she begins her first major undercover operation for Mossad.**

**Disclaimer: You know I own nothing.**

**

* * *

**Early in the evening, they talked about her mission. Ignoring the gradually increasing rainfall, they walked the streets of London for more than an hour while, with stone-faced intensity, he questioned her on the details of her cover, the background of her target, and the geography of the city in which she would be working. His questions were rapid and unpredictable; he often cut her off mid-response to surprise her with another unexpected leap in subject matter. She never missed a beat, and when he was finally satisfied that her knowledge was complete, she saw both the half-smile and the hint of sadness in his eyes.

For the first time since the interrogation had begun, the rhythm of his walk faltered and then stopped. She paused and turned her face to him, scanning his expression curiously. His hands came to rest on her shoulders and he turned her body towards his. His eyes burned into her own, and she reminded herself to breathe under his intense scrutiny.

An infinite moment passed before his gaze broke, concern flashing across his features as his attention turned to the small body between his hands. "You're shivering," he said, squeezing her gently. "Why didn't you say something?"

"I didn't notice," she replied, her eyes still fixed on his face.

"You're soaking wet," he said, exasperated.

"So are you," she pointed out.

"I'm not shivering," he retorted.

"I don't mind," she answered. "I like it."

"Sure you do," he muttered, "Until you find yourself trying to keep up with every ridiculous nuance of an assumed life while keeping your neck out of the cross hairs and battling with pneumonia on the side."

She laughed out loud. "You sound like my mother," she scoffed.

"I speak from experience," he said. "Let's get you out of this rain."

They ran through the streets like children, splashing through puddles and pushing each other into the streams of water running off the rooftops. Dusk turned into night as they sprinted, leaped, and laughed their way towards his apartment, and for a little while, their cares were forgotten. Life and death and subterfuge and danger faded into the background, and they reminded each other what it was to be innocent and joyful and with someone whom you loved. Still laughing, he dragged her dripping through the lobby, then followed her up eleven flights of stairs.

"They don't like it when I get the elevator wet," he whispered, by way of explanation. In response, she just continued to laugh.

She showered first at his request, and, when she emerged from the bathroom wrapped in an over-sized white towel, she was surprised to find him lost in thought, gazing blankly out into the night while the carpet around his shoes grew damp, and then dark, and then downright soaked. She crossed the room in silence, then reached out and brushed her fingers down his wet sleeve. He turned as if he were returning from another era, his eyes dark and blank and far away, but in the next moment he was shaking his head and smiling down at her. Before she could absorb the haunted depth of his expression, he kissed her on the forehead and then walked into the bathroom without a word.

That night, they talked of anything and everything, except her mission. They talked about the past, the future, and the last movie they'd both seen. He read her passages from a book he was reading, and then a piece of his own poetry. She sang for him, softly, because it was well past the hour when most people were asleep, but with all the passion and heart she had within her, because she loved the way he couldn't help but smile as her voice poured forth. They played card games for a while, and then a long and intensely strategic game of chess. Finally, just as the sky began to lighten beyond their window, she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder and his arm around her. He stroked her hair gently and felt each breath that filled her chest, and, just before 0700, he brushed a finger across her cheek to wake her up.

"Time to go," he murmured. She opened her eyes, and after half a moment's hesitation, she nodded, got to her feet, and prepared herself to leave.

They didn't speak on the way the airport. Just outside, she turned to him to offer a typically breezy farewell, but he caught her between his hands again, holding her silent with his eyes. A moment passed, and then another, and all they did was stare.

"Ziva," he murmured at last, "when you can trust no one else, trust me. I will always defend you."

She nodded hesitantly, searching for the right response. "Don't be afraid for me," she said at last.

"I can't help it," he replied. He kissed her forehead, and then his hands dropped to his sides. "Just remember. Promise me you'll remember."

"I will," she answered. She stepped back. He stayed still.

"Love you, Ari," she said, and then, at precisely the same moment, they turned away from each other and went on with their lives.

* * *

**A/N: Again, I love reviews, and would so love to hear your thoughts on the Ziva/Ari dynamic!** **In my mind, they must have shared moments like this because it is so obvious that Ari really meant something to Ziva. There must have been a caring brother under all that twisted, sadistic terrorist - at least that's what I choose to believe.**

**Thanks for reading!  
**


	3. The Only Part That's Real

**A/N: This is essentially a tag to 'Boxed In,' picking up after Ziva drives Tony home and makes him dinner. I'm not sure what I think of this one, but I figured I'd share it anyway and see what ya'll think.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Ziva, don't own Tony, don't own nothing - except my beautiful, amazing horse who has nothing to do with this story.**

**

* * *

**Ziva tried to tell Tony that he didn't have to see her out, but he refused to remain on the couch as she gathered her coat, her purse and her keys and then headed for the door. Pausing just inside the door to shrug her coat on - pointedly ignoring Tony's offer to help - she kept her eyes away from his face. She didn't have to look to know that he was staring at her with the intensity she had been trying to deflect all evening. She could feel his curiosity in the tension between them; she knew he was trying to work out how best to ask her the one question she most wanted to avoid.

Eyes still averted, she reached for the doorknob and managed to get out half a "Good night," before his uninjured arm cut off her exit - his hand resting heavily against the closed door. She fought down her frustration - an irritated outburst at the end of this unusually harmonious evening would have given her away - and turned quickly to put her back against the door. Crossing her arms over her chest, she let her dark eyes find Tony's face. His expression was as she expected: thoughtful, curious, and unfortunately determined. So determined that there wasn't even the faintest trace of the usual flash in his eyes - the flash of sexual tension that neither one of them could deny. Reverting instinctively to one of her oldest and most reliable weapons, she decided to change that. The seductive smile that curled her lips, the way she pushed her hips towards him subtly - these were actions so familiar to her that they required no thought. She had learned long ago how to befuddle a man.

"Tell me something, Zee-vah," Tony said, leaning a touch closer. She could feel the heat of his breath across her face and neck; it was not an unpleasant feeling.

"Yes, Tony?" she murmured, letting her eyes wander noticeably down his chest as she drew out the two short words. She shifted slightly so that she was almost leaning her cheek against his out-stretched arm - her dark curls brushing the sensitive skin of his exposed forearm. Not wanting to take any chances, she let one arm fall to her side as she moved her opposite hand to rest on his shoulder, against the base of his neck. She let her hand rotate slightly, drawing her fingertips in a small arc on his skin. His expression clouded for a moment, and she thought she had him, but then he leaned away - just slightly - and his focus returned.

"Why'd you react the way you did...when we first got stuck in that box?" The question he blurted out was not the one she had seen lurking behind his eyes all evening. She was not the only one who was afraid of revealing too much.

"I mean, you weren't exactly the calm, cool, collected assassin I've come to know and love..." Tony added, trailing off as he processed her expression. He couldn't quite make sense of the turmoil that was stirring in her eyes, but he knew enough to realize that he was treading on thin ice.

She held his eyes as she considered her options. She could take her attempt to distract him further, but how far was she really willing to go? She could walk out, even if it meant literally twisting his arm to do so, but she couldn't help but feel as though she owed him something, something more than just dinner and a movie. Ziva was no fool; she had seen how much it hurt him that she had excluded him from her plans the night before. Or perhaps she _was_ a fool, for letting herself care.

"Mossad does not mount rescue missions," she answered - her voice tight with the unresolved tension of both wanting and not wanting to answer him. "Where I come from, being captured is as good as being dead."

"That's not the way we do things here," Tony replied without thinking - immediately regretting his words when Ziva narrowed her eyes at him angrily.

"I noticed," she snapped. "Can I go now?" She made to duck under his arm, but, before he could quite consider the consequences of his actions, he caught her by the arm and turned her to face him again. The fury in her eyes when she looked up at him almost made him let her go.

"One more question," he murmured, holding her burning, brown eyes with his own soft, green ones. Ziva wasn't quite sure what stopped her from ripping herself free and slamming the door in his face on her way out, but the pause in her reaction was enough of an opening for Tony.

"Why didn't you invite me?" he asked at last. The words had been in his mouth all evening, but he had chosen to play by her rules. He had let her deflect personal questions, avoid revealing anything about herself, and brush off anything he said that wasn't a joke or a snipe. Now the evening was nearly over, though, and he just couldn't let that question go.

"Because I was tired of your relentless immaturity," Ziva hissed, beyond caring if she hurt him. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to make him let her go. "And I wasn't the only one."

Tony's hand dropped from her arm like lead, and, in the moment before his face hardened, she saw the surprise and pain in his eyes. _Good_, she thought, _he needs to learn that Ziva David bites - _and before she could think otherwise, before she could regret what she had done, she walked out the door. Tony made no move or sound to stop her, and she did not look back. She did not stop, or even hesitate, until she was safe in the driver's seat of her red Mini Cooper.

Once she did stop, however, she couldn't keep her eyes from wandering back to the lighted window that she knew was Tony's. She couldn't hold back the wave of disgust and confusion and sadness and...longing...that flooded through her, and she rested her forehead against the steering wheel, every part of her body stiffening defensively in reaction to the pain.

"You had no choice," she whispered to herself, and she was thinking of the words she'd said to Tony, but she couldn't help but think of Ari, too. She couldn't help but think about her assignment here, and all the despair and uncertainty it caused her. She closed her eyes, but the view inside was far darker than the D.C. night and it provided not a single shred of peace. Her only peace was in forgetting, and the only one who ever helped her to forget was Tony. Tony with whom she could tease, argue and flirt with all day, and in the speed and ease of their banter she found the only part of her that seemed real - the only part that didn't require calculation and caution and strain.

She hadn't left him out of her plans the night before because she was tired of him; she couldn't get enough of the freedom he offered her - the all too temporary freedom from pain. She had left him out because she couldn't afford to feel free in the minefield that was Gibbs, Ducky and Abby - the three people most difficult to fool. She had to measure every word, consider each expression to demonstrate the perfect combination of latent grief, practiced coolness, growing confidence, but lingering uncertainty - the exact blend that would cause them to believe her, to trust her, to accept her as their own. She couldn't do that with DiNozzo around, making her forget that this was all an act.

"I had no choice," she repeated, a little louder this time as she straightened herself up and started the car. Perhaps it was not he who had something to learn, but herself, because how the hell had he become so damn important to her? If it hurt her to hurt and lie to him, then she deserved it - for forgetting that this was an assignment and nothing more, for letting him slip inside her cracks...for letting those cracks exist at all. No matter what her father told her, no matter what she told herself, she could not pretend away her grief and guilt, and for that frailty, perhaps she deserved to be punished.

She ignored the choked sob that tore its way unwelcome up her throat. Her hands found the wheel and her foot the gas pedal, and she turned her anguish into speed, tires squealing angrily as her car sped into the night.

From the window above, Tony watched her both stay and then flee. He remained by the window long after she'd gone, turning her words over in his mind again and again. In the end, he decided that she hadn't told the truth, and he wondered what it would take to find the real Ziva David under all that armor.

* * *

**A/N: Soo, whatcha think? Please share your thoughts with me! This piece is consistent with what I've developed in the previous two, so the Ziva we see here is meant to build on the Ziva presented in the first chapter.**

**The way this one ends makes me want to keep writing it - I mean, I can't help but wonder how Tony and Ziva would work this out and go on as before. Who knows? Maybe I will write a second piece of this to answer just that.**

**Thanks for reading!  
**


End file.
